Becoming Middle Aged
My birthday was last Tuesday, October 25. Birthdays at my age are not something to get giddy about. I turned forty nine and I can no longer pretend that I’m not middle aged. With my ability to eat lots of ice cream at one sitting, there is no way I’m going to make it to 100. Who was I fooling, other than myself? My definition of middle age used to be so simple. If you owned a recliner, listened to country music, watched NASCAR, and voted Republican, you were middle aged. Knowing that three of those things would absolutely never happen, I felt comfortable. Three years after announcing my definition to my sister when she turned fifty, I still like it, even when writing this in my recliner. I will never be middle aged by my very own definition. My body, however, is singing a different tune. Blake Shelton’s country version of “Footloose” may be popular with some, but Nine Inch Nails are banging out “Hurt” on my knees. My definition is no longer accurate and I have learned, not that simpl...
